


the best worst plan

by weekend_conspiracy_theorist



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: And Bones is Trans, M/M, Mind Meld, and a delightful handful of ocs, arguments as an expression of fondness, away mission, though it's not relevant to the plot or anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 11:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11416866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekend_conspiracy_theorist/pseuds/weekend_conspiracy_theorist
Summary: When Spock and Len argue, somehow it's Jim who always wins.





	the best worst plan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_warm_beige_color](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_warm_beige_color/gifts).



> *jazz hands*

Len bounces on his toes, studying the back of Spock's bowlcut with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

Despite said galaxy class glare, he is being rather pointedly ignored; Spock continues to perform his duties with his typical Vulcan stoicism. He reaches over, long fingers pressing a series of buttons, and Len huffs in exasperation before he can stop himself.

He's getting a bit bored despite his determination to out wait the Vulcan; behind him, Uhura stifles a giggle.

Jim clears his throat, finally tired of the standoff happening at the science station, and spins his command chair to face them. "Good afternoon, Bones."

"The concept of 'afternoon' is meaningless in the void of space, Jim," Len retorts. (It's Sulu who turns a snicker into a cough this time.)

Jim doesn't laugh, but his smile is audible as he tries again. "Is there something you wanted, Bones?"

"Not from you, Jim."

"Something to report then?"

"Four members of the away team reported to sickbay for their required post-mission physicals."

Jim finally cottons on. "But Bones," he says, faux innocently, "weren't there five members of the away team?"

"Mm, well you see, Jim, the fifth member of the away team seems to feel that the very pressing matter of—" Len clasps his hands behind his back and takes a long step closer to Spock, leaning in to peer over his shoulder at the console—"geological survey data is more important than his health." He turns his head, nose less than an inch from Spock's cheek, and asks lightly, "Tell me, Mr. Spock—according to regulations, for what reasons can an officer miss their post-mission physical?"

Spock breathes out deeply but silently. It's not quite a sigh, but Len feels a smug flare of satisfaction anyway. "Such physicals are only required for away missions longer than twenty-four hours, Doctor."

"Or if the CMO decides it's necessary," Len answers tartly, straightening but not stepping back. "And given the reports received during the away team's stay on the surface- those regarding shortness of breath and dizziness- I have deemed it prudent."

Spock finally straightens away from his station, turning on his heel and entering parade rest as he looks down at Len. There's less than two inches between their chests, which makes it difficult for Len to meet his eye. (He does anyway, stubborn to a fault.) Spock sounds ever so vaguely irritated as he begins, "I informed your nurse—"

" _Christine's nurse_ passed along your message." Len refuses to be cowed, prodding Spock in the chest with one finger. Spock glances down, eyebrow raised and appearing utterly unimpressed by the gesture. Yeah, well, Len is unimpressed by his _eyebrow_. "But according to the rest of the away team, you were the worst affected by the atmosphere."

"I assure you, Doctor, that I am perfectly hale."

"I assure _you_ , Mr. Spock, that I don't believe you."

"I have told you before that Vulcans do not lie."

"And if I ever told you I believed that, I'm as big a liar as you are!"

" _Doctor_ ," Spock snaps.

" _Pike_ ," Len snarls back, and Spock, after a moment's hesitation, tilts his head in acquiescence. Satisfied, Len smoothes out the wrinkle his prodding finger has left in Spock's uniform shirt and takes a step back to a more reasonable conversational distance. "The geology will keep, I assume?"

"If you will allow me a moment to log my work, I will accompany you to sickbay," Spock confirms.

Len bounces on his toes, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, and winks at Uhura as he turns to take his more customary place at Jim's elbow. He ought to be above a little gloating, but then again, what fun would that be? "Didn't mean to turn your shift into dinner theatre, Captain," he says smugly. "I did try to comm him first."

"I've long since resigned myself to the occasional showdown between my first and my CMO," Jim tells him, shooting an amused glance at Spock's back. "Anyway, it's good to see you come out on top once in a while, Bones," he adds with a smirk, and Len splutters indignantly as Sulu and Chekov laugh.

"You—!" He jabs a finger at Jim but isn't sure how to finish the sentence. He settles for a hearty harrumph and spins on his heel, nearly knocking into Spock as he does. With a grunt of surprise, he grabs at Spock's arms to steady himself.

For a moment they're just standing there in close proximity. Spock's hands hover near Len's sides, having come up instinctively to try and catch him before Len had steadied himself, and for a moment he can almost imagine—

Len blinks, snatching back his hands, and asks slightly gruffly, "Ready to go, then?"

"Yes, Doctor." Spock lowers his own hands and clasps them behind his back, expression unreadable.

Not that that's unusual.

Len hurries to move around him, leading the way to the turbolift with a determined stride. The look Uhura gives him is pure Nyota—a little sly and a little mischievous, one corner of her lips ticked up with amusement. "Give me that look when you've finally asked out Christine," he mutters.

Uhura rolls her eyes at him. "You're a grouch," she whispers teasingly, brushing her fingers over his sleeve as he passes.

"Oh, I am, am I?" Len grumbles, catching her hand and squeezing it briefly. "Maybe if y’all knew how to behave, I wouldn't have to be. You know—"

"Doctor," Spock interrupts, voice emotionless and yet somehow radiating amusement, and catches Len's elbow with a firm grip. "I would like to return to my station sometime this shift."

"Yeah, sure; you refuse to report to sickbay in flagrant disregard for orders, then ignore my comms ‘n’ my very presence on the bridge for nearly half an hour, and I'm the one holdin’ up the works!" Len lets Spock usher him into the turbolift, eyes raised toward the ceiling as if 'heavenward' was a meaningful direction in space. "Next time, Mr. Spock, I'm meetin’ you in the damn transporter room myself, and I'll drag you to sickbay by one pointy green ear if I have to!"

The turbolift doors snick shut on the sound of Jim's hearty laughter, leaving them abruptly in silence. After a moment, Spock releases his grip on Len in favor of reaching for the controls. "Computer, medbay," he requests.

Len rubs at his elbow as they glide gently into motion. "Which one of us _does_ win more often?" he asks abruptly. Spock half-turns towards him, raising an eyebrow, and Len clarifies, "Our arguments, Spock; Jim said it was nice to see me win one ‘for once’."

Spock clasps his hands behind his back and considers the question, dark eyes focused on some middle distance. "In this instance, how would you define 'winning', Doctor?"

"I suppose…" Len bounces on his toes thoughtfully. "Which of us gets their way most often?"

Spock's eyes meets Leonard's, a smile hidden somewhere in the lines around them as he replies simply, "Captain Kirk."

 

* * *

 

Jim and Spock's chess game is proving to be the perfect atmosphere for catching up on the latest research published courtesy of Starfleet Medical Journal. They’ve been at it for hours now, and the soft murmur of their conversation- typically philosophy, most typically metaphysics- and the clicking of glass on glass are enough to keep Len from getting restless without being distracting.

He’s perched on the edge of the couch with his elbows braced on his knees, the coffee table taken up by two PADDs; one set up for reading and another for taking notes (or rather, for haphazardly jotting down opinions in a comm that he’ll eventually clean up and send to Geoff and Christine).

Len taps his stylus against his bottom lip, so focused on the article in front of him that he doesn’t notice when Jim’s attention shifts away from Spock. Geoff had sent him this one, after all, already annotated with a handful of thoughts; it’s a preliminary study, so the authors are cautious to draw conclusions, but their results are _remarkable_. The _Enterprise_ would be a prime location to attempt further analysis. If the study is replicable--

“--Bones!” Jim snaps his fingers, and Len flinches with surprise, jerking his head up.

“Sorry, what?” he asks blankly, glancing from Spock- fingers steepled and still contemplating the chess board- to Jim, whose eyes are crinkled with the force of the fond grin he’s directing at Len.

“You mutter under your breath when you read those things, you know.” Jim spins Spock’s rook in the fingers of one hand and gestures vaguely with the other. “There’s lots of scoffing interspersed with the occasional _thoughtful_ _hum_.”

Len rolls his eyes, tossing his stylus down on the table and stretching his back with a wince. “Didja need somethin’, Jim?”

“We’ve been discussing tomorrow’s landing party, and I’d like your opinion.” He leans back in his seat, settling his hands over his stomach with a small little grin on his face.

“Tomorrow...” Len racks his brain, drumming his fingers. He’d tuned out most of the department meeting that morning in favor of trying to catch up on enough paperwork to keep the nurses from plotting his murder. “Play time for the botanists, isn’t it?” He looks to Spock for confirmation, but the Vulcan is still contemplating his next move. _Figures_.

“You have such a way with words, Bones.” Jim’s eyes are twinkling with amusement. “Yes, the planet’s low in fauna with a tropical climate; in other words, high biodiversity but low risk, at least according to preliminary scans. As of yet the landing party is composed of Mr. Spock, Mr. Sulu, and three scientists.”

Len scoffs. “Given how often our preliminary scans claim that there’re no humanoid creatures on a planet and then we end up runnin’ for our lives--”

“Exactly my point.” Jim raps his knuckles on the arm of his chair, looking rather self-satisfied. “I’d like to add two security ensigns and a medical officer to the roster.”

“And I have pointed out to the captain that the likelihood of a physical provocation which could not be handled by myself and Mr. Sulu is quite negligible,” Spock tells Len, though his gaze is still leveled on the chessboard. “Additionally, in the event of a medical emergency, a beam out will be required regardless of the presence of one of the ship’s esteemed doctors or nurses.”

“I’d prefer to err on the side of caution,” Jim insists, and Spock finally shifts his attention, leveling Len with a flat gaze that would have been a long-suffering eye roll if he were nearly anyone else.

Len huffs, lips twitching in amusement--regarding which of them, he’s not entirely sure. “Jim, how come ya only ever bother to cover your bases on away missions y’aren’t on?”

"I thought you’d approve of this plan, Bones.” Jim raises an eyebrow. “You’re always going on about how dangerous space is.”

He’s fishing for something, Len can tell. There’s something about his relaxed posture and gently teasing smile that’s very, very calculated.

Len sits back into the couch, eyes narrowing, and crosses his arms over his chest. “I didn’t say I didn’t,” he says carefully. “My point was, maybe you should apply this line of thinkin’ more often; it’s not just your people you need to protect, it’s your own self as well.”

He jerks his chin towards Spock. “Not that he’s wrong about it probably being overkill in this instance. Two security officers, Jim? On a planet with no animal life bigger’n a toy poodle?”

“Fair enough.” Jim nods. “Just one, then. No complaints about the medical officer?”

Len shrugs. “Not at all. Spock’s right that a beam out would be preferred, if not ultimately necessary, for treating most emergencies, but neither a medkit nor the person whose hip it’s on’s exactly _useless_.”

“Such an implication was not my intention,” Spock assures him.

“So quick to correct me, Mr. Spock; it’s almost like you care.” Len smiles innocently, and Jim buries a laugh behind one hand.

Spock folds his hands on the table, raising his eyebrow. “Not at all, Doctor.”

Len sits up straighter. “Oh?”

“You are aware of my personal opinions regarding your skills as a physician, of course--”

“Gentlemen,” Jim cuts in, before Len can fire back in kind, and Spock looks almost as disappointed as Len feels. “As entertaining as this is guaranteed to be, I had a different endgame in mind.”

“Figured you did,” Len says with a sigh, slouching back into the couch.

His captain drops his elbows to his knees, leaning forward as he flashes a winning smile, and Len feels himself instinctively growing suspicious. “Bones,” Jim begins.

“I changed my mind,” Len says quickly. “There’s no need for a medical officer on this mission.”

Jim’s smile remains in place, his voice patient as he continues. “I know you’re still catching up on your paperwork--”

“Spock, tell him how useless I am!” Len begs.

He receives an eyebrow in response. “Vulcans do not lie, Doctor.”

“--but your admirable expertise--”

Len buries his face in his hands. “The nurses are going to shank me, Jim.”

“--makes you the obvious choice for the away mission tomorrow,” Jim concludes.

“I’m talking Julius Caesar on the Ides of March,” he says desperately. “The entire medbay with a scalpel in hand, taking turns stabbing me in the back.”

Spock makes a quiet noise of disagreement. “Nurse Chapel is highly tolerant of your shortcomings, Doctor; she- and her nurses in her image- will accept another day’s delay with impeccable grace.”

Len drops his hands, shooting them a dirty look. “I hate both of you,” he informs them. “I hope you understand that.”

Jim is too busy being smug to be sympathetic. “Should’ve been doing work tonight instead of reading medical journals,” he tells Len cheerfully, straightening out of his slouch and turning back to the chessboard. “Now, Mr. Spock--”

“I have forfeit,” Spock interjects. His king is, indeed, laid delicately on its side. “A formality,” he adds, ever so slightly sardonic, “given that both Doctor McCoy and I lost this game before we ever set foot in your quarters tonight.”

 

* * *

 

Len clasps his hands behind his back, bouncing slightly on his toes as he crowds in rather closer than necessary to peer over Spock's shoulder. He's hoping to provoke comment—he’s bored, largely extraneous for this mission, and Spock’s preferences for personal space wouldn't be an awful subject with which to whittle away their time left on this rock.

Unfortunately, Spock's far too caught up in his work to fall for it this time. He barely spares Len a glance as he waves his tricorder over the plant in front of him, murmuring a "fascinating" to himself at whatever readings he's getting.

Len backs off a step, ignoring the irrational twinge of disappointment in his gut, and turns to survey the rest of the landing party. The science blues (and Lieutenant Sulu) are spread in a messy circle as they methodically catalog the flora and small fauna of the planet. The exception is Antonio Martinez, the security officer; he stands at the center of the circle, drumming his fingers on his thigh and trying to stay alert. This’ll be a quiet mission for the both of them, assuming everything goes according to plan.

Len snorts. Nothing _ever_ goes according to plan for the _Enterprise_ or her crew.

Spock glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised slightly, and Len shrugs in response to the silent question. "Just thinkin' that it's been an awful quiet mission so far, but knowin’ our luck it won't stay that way."

"Don’t jinx us, Doc," Sulu calls, and Len barks a surprised laugh.

"Tell you what, Mr. Sulu, if you can confirm that these alien trees are in fact made of wood, I'll give one a rap just to put your mind at ease."

Spock turns away from his tricorder readings once more, a slight frown in that Vulcan brow of his, and Len waves a hand carelessly. "It's a human superstition, Mr. Spock; saying something aloud can make it come true, and knockin’ on wood’ll stave off the effects."

"That is quite illogical, Doctor,” Spock states disapprovingly.

"Quite," Len agrees, clapping Spock on the shoulder. “We humans are like that.” After a moment, he grins, adding, “On occasion.”

Spock’s eyebrow clearly indicates his opinion of that caveat as he returns to his work.

A hand brushes his elbow, and he jumps guiltily, turning away from Spock and schooling his face into polite interest. The unofficial head botanist of the _Enterprise_ , Min Sung, laughs silently as she tilts her tricorder to show him the readings. “The fibers of the trees _do_ resemble Terran wood, Doctor,” she explains, glancing at Spock’s back with her lips twisted in amusement.

He clears his throat, feeling himself flush red. “Well, alright then. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“No problem, Doctor.” She winks at him as she drifts away once more.

“Everyone on this damn ship needs to learn to mind their own business,” Len mutters under his breath, raising his eyes up to the sky. (It’s purple, almost entirely hidden by blue-green leaves--for a moment, he sways with how strongly he misses Earth.)

“Grab the closest tree, Doc, we don’t have all day,” Sulu calls teasingly, and Len snaps back to the present.

He wiggles his eyebrows at Sulu, bouncing on his toes, and strides carefully through the underbrush to the nearest russet trunk. “Let’s take care of this jinx,” he announces jokingly, then takes a deep breath, stretches out his fist--

And raps his knuckles smartly against the wood three times. With a huff of laughter, he rolls his eyes at himself and spins on his heel, moving back into the circle.

“Almost expected something dramatic to happen just before you knocked,” Martinez tells him, flashing a grin.

“You and me both, ensign,” Len agrees with a self-deprecating chuckle. He drifts over to the security officer, reaching out to pluck lightly at the sleeve of his uniform shirt. “You aren’t binding today, are you?” he asks lowly, glaring up at him suspiciously.

“Nah. Protocol not to on away missions, in case we end up exerting ourselves or staying overnight. Bad for the ribs to leave it on, and, you know...” He makes a gesture as if pulling something his shirt over his head. “Pain in the ass to take it off.”

Len snorts. “I haven’t had to wear a binder in twenty-five years, Martinez, but trust me, I know.” He nods to himself, hands on his hips. “Glad to hear you don’t have your head too far up your ass to ignore sound medical advice.”

The ensign tosses back his head as he laughs. “Well, Doc, you've yelled at me ‘n’ Harper when you’ve seen us in the gym enough times...”

Len vaguely remembers grabbing a stick thin young man- his white shirt damp enough with sweat to make his binder easily visible- by the arm and dragging him bodily off of the sparring mats. “Guess I have,” he agrees mildly.

Martinez grins down at him, utterly and completely unrepentant (and also looking a bit fond), so Len scowls and shoves a finger in his face even as the first drops of rain begin to fall. “Y’all’re seventeen kinds of stupid wrapped up in the invincibility of youth,” he says hotly, “and you seem t’ think--”

“Why didn’t the ship warn us a storm was on its way?” Sulu asks, face turned up to the sky, and Len breaks off with a sudden sense of foreboding.

He grabs Martinez’s communicator off of his belt, the device closer to hand than his own, and snaps out, “McCoy to _Enterprise_.”

The silence he receives in answer is deafening. On every side of him, the other members of the away team receive the same results. Almost as one, they turn with grim faces to move towards their commanding officer.

“No storms were visible as of this morning.” Spock’s voice is barely loud enough to be heard over the rain as it pours faster and faster. “The weather of this planet must be highly mercurial. I would postulate--” He pauses for a crash of thunder far less distant than Len would prefer. “That the electrical charge of the storm blocked communications- and transport- before a warning could be issued.”

“Didn’t knock fast enough,” Len mutters to himself, twisting back to check that Martinez is on his heels and Abd Basara not far behind.

The crash of thunder is so loud, the crack of lightning so close, that the ground shakes and the air smells of ozone; Len doesn’t see the tree explode as it’s hit, but he hits the ground hard- shoved- someone shielding him with their own body.

“Are you hurt, Doctor?” Spock asks, rolling off of him immediately, but Len is scrambling to his feet.

“WHO WAS CLOSEST?” he bellows over the rain, his tricorder appearing in his hand almost before he thinks to reach for it.

Riley Jenkins inspects the back of her arm, lips tight, and he makes a beeline for her. “JUST A COUPLE SPLINTERS, DOCTOR MCCOY,” she assures him as soon as she notices him. “THE TREE WAS NEARLY TEN METERS AWAY.”

“I’LL BE THE JUDGE OF THAT, HONEY, IF YOU DON’T MIND!” He grasps her wrist to gently guide her arm to a better position, peering through the rain. Even with her shirt darkening under the onslaught of rain, blood is easy enough to see against the blue; there thankfully isn’t much of it. In another moment, his tricorder confirms her diagnosis with a whir that he probably imagines more than hears.

His smile is enough answer for her, and for Spock as well--

His hands are insistent on their shoulders, guiding them to join the others. “WE MUST FIND PROPER SHELTER.”

“THE GEOLOGICAL SURVEY HAD NO INDICATION OF CAVE SYSTEMS NEAR OUR COORDINATES.” Min Sung points in a seemingly arbitrary direction, her uniform sticking heavily to her slender form. There’s a spark of determination in her eyes as she insists, “OUR ONLY CHOICE IS TO HEAD DEEPER INTO THE FOREST.”

Spock doesn’t waste his breath continuing to shout over the rain; he simply nods, sharply, and leads the way.

 

* * *

 

“This is the worst idea.” Len cups his hands around his mouth, shouting, “DO YOU HEAR ME, SPOCK? THIS IS AN AWFUL IDEA!”

Spock, fifteen feet above their heads, pointedly ignores him. He moves higher and higher with a cat-like grace, his pale, slender form starkly visible in the gloom. The alien trees, though the first two and a half meters of their trunks are bare, have a large number of thick, long, twisting branches; as close together as they grow in this part of the forest, Spock moves as easily as climbing a ladder.

Nonetheless, Len winces as he watches Spock jump calmly from one branch to another--those Starfleet issue boots have awful traction. (He’s treated enough security ensigns for concussions after they slid out while chasing that week’s intruder; he should know.)

“None of us had any better ideas,” Sung points out. She sounds exhausted and looks the part, too, with dark circles under her eyes and humidity-frizzy strands of hair escaped from her ponytail. It had taken them hours to find this dry spot, hours to wait out the storm, and more hours still to argue their way to a solution after communications remained down.

Len softens, at least momentarily. “That doesn’t make this one good, Lieutenant,” he tells her. “These trees are thousands of meters tall--” he cups his hands around his mouth again--”AND EVEN ASSHOLE VULCANS CAN DIE FROM FALLING THOUSANDS OF METERS, MR. SPOCK!”

Jenkins stifles a giggle behind one hand, and Martinez mutters something that makes Sulu choke on his spit. (Len purposefully chooses to mishear it.)

“Of all the damn fool plans he’s come up with in the past,” Len says firmly, “this one really takes the fucking--” he breaks off his complaining, burying his face in his hands as he comes to a realization. “Jesus. Jesus--it’s not even going to work.”

“What?” Basara asks, brown eyes going wide with alarm. “What do you mean, it’s not going to--”

“Goddamn Vulcan muscle mass,” Len spits, then tips his head back as he shouts, “YOU’RE TOO HEAVY FOR THE SMALLER BRANCHES! YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO GET FAR ENOUGH INTO THE CANOPY!”

Spock pauses. He seems to consider the words for about thirty seconds, then states heavily (and just barely loud enough to be heard), “That remains to be seen, Doctor.” He begins to climb once more.

Len snarls under his breath, rubbing his face vigorously. “How the hell do I always get sucked into these things?” he demands, of no one in particular, then snaps out, “Pocket knife.”

Sulu blinks at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Not you--SPOCK! STAY THERE FOR A MINUTE!” Len sheds his shirt and then turns to Martinez, shoving out his hand expectantly. “Pocket knife,” he repeats.

Martinez stares at him for a second in abject confusion, eyes flicking briefly up to Spock as if asking permission, and finally leans down, drawing the small knife clipped inside his left boot. “How did you...?”

Len snatches it out of his hand, twisting over his shoulder to make sure Spock hasn’t continued moving, and mutters distractedly, “The same way I know which engineers have ratcheting screwdrivers shoved through their belt loops ‘n’ which ones keep allen wrenches in their updos...”

He flicks open the knife and carefully makes a cut, a few inches deep, into the seam of the shirt. He then turns the knife and begins one long cut, turning the shirt rapidly until he hits one of the sleeves, creating one long strip of fabric. “The nurses know everythin’,” he explains, “and they reward me for doin’ my paperwork by keepin’ me in the loop.”

Sung accepts the now-worthless remaining fabric that Len shoves in her direction, though she’s clearly dumfounded. “What are you _doing_ , Doctor?”

“He intends to accompany me, and is protecting his hands from the bark of the trees,” Spock calls, and Len’s lips twitch into a humorless grin as he eyeballs the halfway mark, cutting his strip of fabric in two. “I would like to make clear my opposition to your plan, Doctor, though I am aware that I cannot convince you to abandon it in favor of a more logical course of action.”

“Complaint noted, Mr. Spock...” Len hasn’t wrapped his hands like this in ages- he doesn’t box on the ship, not wanting to give Jim any wise ideas about his ability to handle himself in a fight- but muscle memory doesn’t fail him. Three loops around his wrist, two around the meat of his palm, then passing the fabric between each of his fingers, wrapping his palm in between. He doesn’t have enough to wrap his thumb, leaving a triangle of skin exposed, but it’s better than nothing. He frowns heavily as he wraps his other hand, concluding, “And appropriately ignored.”

He eyes the branch Spock had started with; there’s no way Len- nearly three inches shorter- will be able to reach it, especially factoring in those lanky Vulcan limbs. With a sigh, he turns to Sulu and Martinez. “Gentlemen, a boost?”

“One moment, Doctor.” Spock’s voice is much closer than before; Len looks up, surprised, just as Spock drops lightly onto the branch in question. He crouches, extending one fine-boned hand.

Len huffs. “Thought you didn’t approve of my company,” he grouses, rather than acknowledge the way his heart does something funny in his chest, and reaches up in return. Spock settles his grip carefully, the vaguest hint of a frown visible between his eyebrows as his fingers curl around the wrappings on Len’s wrist, and then- in one smooth motion- he rises to his feet.

Scrambling to find his balance as his feet come level with the branch, Len abandons his grip on Spock’s hand to grab at his shoulders instead. “Lucky I’m so goddamn skinny,” he mutters, looking down past their feet to the rest of the landing party, who all stare back up with wide eyes. “This is the fucking worst plan.”

Spock doesn’t sigh, but he does breathe in and then out rather forcefully, an action that brushes his chest against Len’s. (Len flushes with embarrassment, remembering he’s shirtless, and takes a hasty but careful step back.) “Doctor, I did not ask you to accompany me.”

“You’ve got me anyway.” Len sniffs, reaching out to smooth away the wrinkles he’s left in Spock’s uniform shirt. He turns, stretching for the next branch, and hauls himself up as he mutters, “Don’t tell Jim I tore up my shirt to wrap my hands; we’ll never get him back with his uniform shirt intact again.”

 

* * *

 

Strength training has never been a priority for Len; cardio and endurance are infinitely more useful to him as a surgeon, and the relentless hours in the gym necessary to build muscle mass are a waste of time. He takes his own sound advice when it comes to maintaining a regular exercise schedule while on-ship, fitting in time for a run five or six times a week- not counting all the times he ends up sprinting from his medbay to the transporter room- to maintain a healthy resting heart rate and muscle tone for a man of his age.

Len _isn’t_ in bad shape.

This is what he’s telling himself, the wraps around his hands uncomfortably damp with sweat, as he stubbornly matches Spock’s relentless pace. It’s just that he’s human, and not a young, spry one on top of that.

His foot slips and he curses, throwing himself forward to grab at the branch he’d been about to reach for. The bark scrapes off a layer of the skin of his chest on impact, but he’s too busy seeing his life flash before his eyes to notice or care.

Len continues to cling to the branch, panting, as Spock backtracks to his side. “Are you hurt, Doctor?” he asks softly, one hand moving as if to touch Len reassuringly--but Spock must think better of the action, confronted by the bare expanse of Len’s back, since he instead firmly settles both hands on the branch in front of him.

Reluctantly, Len admits, “I need a break.” He pulls himself up, grunting at the protest his tired muscles make, and shuffles carefully to lean back against the trunk. Spock doesn’t smile back when Len offers him a thin grin (not that Len expected him to).

“We have not yet reached the canopy,” Spock tells him, carefully dancing around a vocalization of the disapproval Len can see in his dark eyes. “The thickness of the branches and lack of animal life are still indicative of the subcanopy.”

“Ways to go yet, I know.” Len scrubs at his face, the rough edges of the bindings on his hands scraping in a way he appreciates. He’s a little taller than Spock, sitting on the branch like this; it’s an odd feeling to have to look down on the Vulcan. “Not used to this much exertion, Spock; you have to forgive me.”

“If you are truly feeling exhaustion, Doctor, then--”

“You’re not leavin’ me behind,” Len snaps. Spock watches him silently, and he scoffs, scrambling to push himself back to his feet. “Break time over,” he says sourly. “Try to keep up.”

“You are being illogical,” Spock states, easily pacing Len. There’s a vague undercurrent of annoyance in his voice. “I was not proposing--”

“The diameter of these branches has been gettin’ smaller, you green blooded hobgoblin,” Len puffs, pausing to lean on the trunk and bounce his weight; the branch shakes underneath their feet, and Spock practically radiates disapproval. “You weigh 40% more’n a typical human of your height and build, and I’m shorter and skinnier to boot. I’ll be able to get a hell of a lot higher’n you, even if it takes me more effort to get there.”

“Doctor McCoy, I--”

Len waves a finger in Spock’s face, cutting him off. “You and Jim, always so insistent that you’re the only ones who can save the day. Well, guess what? Sometimes other people _\--”_

“ _Leonard_!” Spock says sharply, and Len's brain practically short-circuits; he gapes like a fish as he tries to formulate a sensible response.

Spock doesn’t give him the time or the satisfaction. “I am aware of my limitations,” he insists, dark eyes imploring as he searches Len’s face. “I am simply asking you to be aware of yours.”

Len licks his lips, feeling his face burning. Probably his chest, too, not that he wants to glance down to confirm. “What--” he clears his throat. “What’re you proposing?”

Spock turns on his heel, presenting Len with the straight line of his back, and then proceeds to drop to one knee. “The most logical course of action, Doctor; in order to conserve your strength for the leg of the journey you will be forced to take alone--”

“Oh.” Len closes his eyes. “Oh, good Lord.”

“--I will carry you until our combined weight exceeds the limitations of the branches.”

“Sweet Jesus! No!” Len grabs him underneath the arms, tugging ineffectually until Spock rises of his own volition. He turns back to face Len with the vaguest hint of a frown hovering about the corners of his lips, and Len throws his arms wide, feeling his face twist incredulously. “You’re not carryin’ me piggy back, Spock! Just let me set the pace from here on out, you damn fool--I won’t wear out so quick if we’re not _sprintin’ up the fuckin’ tree_.”

“If you insist,” Spock says, in that neutral way that means he has an opinion he won’t bother to voice (because Len should already know better).

“Thank you _kindly_ for the offer," Len tells him, propping his hands on his hips and rolling his eyes, “but I do very much insist.”

Spock holds his gaze for a moment longer, and then he nods, sharply. “Do you require further rest before we continue?”

Len’s knee jerk reaction is to tell 'im to fuck off, but--

His fingers are raw and sore, his ribs ache from where he’d fallen, his legs feel a bit like jello, and his lungs are burning; about the only parts of him that feel okay are his palms, protected by his makeshift handwraps.

He refuses to look Spock in the eye. “Another minute couldn’t hurt,” he mutters gruffly.

Spock nods, seeming neither surprised nor bothered.

Len narrows his eyes. “What?” he demands, and for once, Spock doesn’t pretend to misunderstand the context of the question.

“While we rest,” he murmurs, “there is something I could show you, Doctor.” He reaches past Len to brush his fingers over the bark of the trunk, his expression fleetingly- shockingly- open in its quiet awe. “This forest is simply… extraordinary.”

Len’s breath catches in his throat. He’s never seen Spock- of his own volition, without mind control or the effects of an alien drug- appear so raw and unguarded. “Yeah?” he croaks out.

“I was not certain what I was sensing until recently, when I grasped the same branch with both hands; the awareness is slow moving, ancient, and lacking in complexity, making it difficult to detect.” Spock lays his palm flat, long, pale fingers spreading greedily across the bark. “Nonetheless, I have come to the conclusion that these trees are a single, sentient organism.”

Len whistles, long and low. This forest covers hundreds of acres, bears thousands of ‘individual’ trees. The root system- the nervous system- necessary to connect something so vast would have to be staggeringly complex. “The botanists are gonna swoon; Min might not even actually let us beam her up.”

“Yes.” Spock’s eyes look almost amused. “Lieutenant Sung is a highly passionate scientist.”

Len feels his own lips twitch in response. “Now, I’m sure I don’t know _anyone_ like that,” he drawls, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet.

“No one, Doctor?” Spock seems to sway forward himself, or maybe it’s just Len’s mind playing tricks on him, making him think the distance between them is getting smaller.

He tilts his chin higher, meeting Spock’s gaze with a devilish grin. “No one,” he insists.

There’s a beat where he almost thinks--

“I would like to initiate a meld,” Spock announces, shattering the moment.

Len jerks back in surprise, his back hitting the trunk of the tree--the pain makes his “What in the goddamned hell are you going on about, Spock?!?” come out even sharper than intended.

“There is so much to learn and so little time,” Spock tells him, his usual monotone just slightly softened by a near reverence. He lifts his hand to hover near Len’s temple in silent invitation. “Will you join me, Doctor?” he asks softly.

Len stares at him.  “I changed my mind, Mr. Spock,” he says furiously, even as he presses forward into the waiting fingers. “ _This_ is the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

 

* * *

 

_My mind to your mind; my thoughts to your thoughts_.

They’ve done this before, Spock’s hand curling around the side of his face, drawing him under--insisting, that previous time, that their upcoming firefight at the OK Corral would be incapable of causing them injury.

This is _different_.

They dive together, headfirst into an ancient, omniscient awareness, at once drawing life from the damp, dark soil and beckoning the rays of the binary suns their planet orbits. There’s childlike curiosity in the way they stretch into the skin of this new form of life, darting straight for the furthest reaches of their collective thought and gathering data haphazardly--too excited to slow down and be methodical, and that must be Len, unless maybe it’s Spock.

_More of a colony than a single organism--_

_It doesn’t even notice us--_

_Negative; we’re simply so incredibly_ insignificant _compared to it--_

_You just used a contraction!_

There’s a wave of delight and amusement so tall and wide it can’t possibly be all from Len--their arboreal companion stirs, something akin to primordial annoyance directed their way, and Len drags Spock away like they’re naughty school boys caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

He’s laughing, darting from the consciousness of one tree to another, tracing a wide circle back towards where they started. Spock keeps pace with him as easily here as he does in the physical realm, or maybe he’s keeping pace with Spock...

There’s something dreamlike in the way perspectives shift and twist within a meld, things you’d taken as fact becoming fiction becoming another fact entirely, and suddenly this isn’t quite so fun any more, he’s losing himself in the forest as if he’s German and eight, except here there are no breadcrumbs--

 _Leonard_ , Spock murmurs, catching his hand, and it’s just the two of them.

He laughs again, giddy with relief to be back in his own mind. He’d say he doesn’t even mind that Spock’s there, too, but it’s impossible to lie when Spock can feel the way his exasperation and affection wind over and around each other into something almost like--

Spock’s kissing him, projecting a wave of emotion that tastes like amazement and relief and reciprocation, and Len fumbles for Spock’s hand, chasing a fleeting memory of Sarek and Amanda exchanging fond glances as they touch fingers. (He remembers, too, green blood up to his elbows and a fluttery panic in his chest as the ship shook around him while he held two lives in his hands, but a steady, insistent confidence quickly worms its way into the forefront instead.)

He pushes forward the bitter sort of anger driving his words in a faux-Roman prison cell, the regret and guilt twining around every syllable even as they dripped from his lips; Spock offers his own guilt-want-embarrassment-fury from a frozen cave in the past, layered in the terror and horror with which he looks back on the way his hand had close don Len’s throat. Len shares the blindingly giddy relief behind “Shut up, Spock, we’re rescuing you!”, and Spock reveals the way his heart missed a beat when Len was the first thing he saw.

_Sap._

_How very hypocritical, Leonard._

Len breaks away, desperate for oxygen, and the meld dissolves, slowly, around him. He senses a final wisp of reluctance, counter-acted by a sense of duty.

“We must complete our mission, Doctor,” Spock murmurs. They’re still close enough together for his breath to brush across Len’s lips; his hand cradles Len’s jaw as if he were something precious, fragile. He hasn’t yet opened his eyes.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Len blinks repeatedly, trying to get used to be alone in his skin once more. “I’m feeling quite, ah, rested, Mr. Spock, thank you.”

Len’s panting and sweaty and visibly flushed red from head to toe (there’s a phantom memory of a vaguely guilty appreciation of the way the muscles in his own back move as he climbs--), and it’s truly, utterly unfair that Spock looks so impeccable. Spitefully, he reaches up with the hand that’s not still desperately clutching Spock’s, ruffling that neat Vulcan hair of his.

Spock’s eyes fly open, heavy with disapproval, and Len grins crookedly at him. “You think I’m good at my job,” he teases, heading off the reprimand.

The breath Spock draws in is laden with exasperation; he straightens away from Len and drops his hand (though his fingertips linger on Len’s skin for a long moment). “You have expressed such sentiments in the past regarding myself, as well,” he points out heavily.

“You kissed me, Mr. Spock; you don’t get to start playing coy now.” Len squeezes Spock’s hand one final time before letting him go, a smug tilt to his grin as he turns to reach for the next branch. He feels light as a feather, his fatigue utterly forgotten.

“You forget, Doctor, that you kissed me as well,” Spock fires back. He’s betrayed by the faint green blush spreading across his cheeks and staining the tips of his ears.

Len’s still laughing when his communicator chirps in another two hundred meters--”Miss Nyota,” he drawls sincerely, “yours sure is a voice for sore ears. Tell Scotty to beam me straight to sickbay so I can put on a damn shirt before the captain sees what I’ve done to this one.”

(Turns out they were able to receive a signal before the branches stopped bearing Spock’s weight after all.)

 

* * *

 

Jim looks back and forth between them, disbelief written in every line of his face. “Run me through this again,” he insists, and Len rubs the bridge of his nose, his other hand propped on his hip. “You went further into the forest to escape the rain, then realized communications and sensors were actually being blocked by a particular mineral in the soil that the trees actively absorbed, and instead of turning around and walking back to the clearing where you were beamed down...”

Len elbows Spock. “I told you it was a bad plan,” he hisses. “Even _Jim_ thinks it was a bad plan!”

“Doctor, please keep your appendages to yourself.” Spock takes a half-step to the side, ignoring the scowl Len directs at his stupidly attractive profile. “Returning to our beam down site would have taken several additional hours, and the morale and fatigue of the landing party required more immediate action. Given that Mr. Scott had successfully beamed the party _into_ the forest, all that was necessary was to effectively communicate our coordinates to the ship.”

“And then,” Jim plows on, “you decided to _mind meld with a tree_ because Bones needed a break--”

“I wouldn’t say _needed_ \--”

“To be precise, Captain, we melded with the collective consciousness of every tree in the forest.”

Jim drags a hand down his face, and Len scoffs. “We didn’t do anything you wouldn’t’ve done yourself, Jim,” he snaps, prodding a finger in his captain’s direction. “You beamed down with Abraham Lincoln to fist fight Genghis Khan, you impersonated a Romulan to steal a cloaking device, you asked Scotty to drink through his entire stash in one night to knock an alien on its ass, you had Spock mind meld with a _rock_ \--” he throws his hands in the air. “It’s the goddamned eighth wonder of the world that any one of us is alive!”

Jim’s glare is stony. “Report to sickbay; I’m tired of looking at you, and your away team was out of contact with the _Enterprise_ for nine hours. I want all seven of you checked out by Doctor M’Benga and Nurse Chapel.”

Len blows out a breath. “Yeah, Jim. Fair enough.” He slips past him towards the door of the ready room, squeezing Jim’s shoulder as he goes--he hadn’t meant to imply that the crew was alive in _spite_ of him rather than because of him. “I think the world of you, Captain; you know that.”

“Kiss ass,” Jim mutters, but there’s a grin somewhere under the words.

Len pauses in the doorway, turning to raise an eyebrow at Spock. “Comin’, hobgoblin?”

Spock looks at Jim, his face guarded even by his own standards. “We made one omission from our official report, Captain,” he says, voice perfectly neutral.

Jim’s shoulders straighten. “Explain,” he snaps.

“It’s none of anyone’s goddamn business but ours, and I s’pose whatever lucky bastard won the pot,” Len interjects, before Spock can do more than open his mouth. Jim jerks his head to look at him, expression somewhere between delight and shock, and Len adds, drily, as he props a hip on the doorframe, “I’m guessin’ it’s Nyota or Janice?”

He turns his attention back to Spock, feeling a sly grin steal over his lips. “Now, my dear Mr. Spock, d’you have any intention of comin’ willin’ly, or am I gonna have to make good on that threat I made a month or so back?” He raises his thumb and forefinger, pinching them together meaningfully. “Draggin’ you to your physical by your pointy-greens...”

“You are far too fond of my ears to mishandle them as such, Doctor,” Spock says gravely.

Jim positively howls with laughter as Len splutters indignantly. “You listen here, you green blooded hobgoblin,” he snarls, falling into step beside Spock as he strides out of the ready room with his typical pristine composure. “I think we need a few ground rules about how, when, and where we’re allowed to discuss our _fondnesses--”_

**Author's Note:**

> u know it's the worst plan in the fucking world when you try to write the discussion leading up to it three separate times and every time the only reasonable conclusion is "for fuck's SAKE why is this about to happen" but ur already attached to the concept of spock mind melding with a tree thousands of feet in the air so u just do a longer time skip


End file.
